Enduring Passions (23 page)

George came back with the pints and set them on the table.

‘Hey, they’re talking around the bar about a Reuters message – seems the Jerries may be attacking Norway.’

They looked at each other, downed their pints, and hurriedly left.

In the Sergeants’ mess everybody was gathered around the wireless as the details started coming in. A massive German thrust through Denmark was already landing in Norway. Later that day Denmark surrendered.

And still nothing happened.

They all fretted about as the British force in Norway ran into trouble. Apart from that débàcle all remained quiet.

The CO took Tom shooting – explaining that skills developed on the northern moors and estuaries could be transferred to air fighting. The highest scoring pilots of the Great War were the game shooters, well acquainted with the deflection shot.

So Tom shot birds as Norway fell. But his closeness to the CO did have one other benefit. He listened when Tom told him about his wife.

‘I’ll get on to old Tommy Parker. He’s out there now.’

Happier, Tom blew a fast flying teal out of the sky. It plummeted at speed to earth.

‘That’s the way, Roxham.’

The CO clapped him on the back. ‘Give the same medicine to the Hun when we meet him.’

Fay had just got up, showered and was at her dressing-table, combing her wet hair and enjoying the cool air from the overhead fan, when there was a knock on her bedroom door.

Pulling on a robe she opened it to find the houseboy standing there.

‘Missie needed. Soldiers come.’

Puzzled, she hurried along the hall.

Her aunt was already up.

As soon as she saw the young flight-lieutenant she knew it had to be about Tom.

‘What is it?’

The flight-lieutenant, who had his hat under his arm enquired, ‘Mrs Roxham?’

‘Yes.’

Her heart was banging so violently in her rib cage she thought they must all hear it.

‘I have a message from your husband, madam.’

He held out an official buff-coloured envelope.

As Fay took it, her aunt was already inviting him to have a cold drink, and to have another sent out to his driver. Fay turned away, hands
trembling
, and tore it open.

She read it over again and then once more. Its shortness and lack of sweet sayings was disappointing. Then she realized that it had come through official channels – probably unofficially. He had had to avoid some jumped up little twirp stopping its transmission.

And the reference to Sheringham was his way of telling her he wanted to make love to her again. She ached for his touch.

‘Is there any reply, madam?’

It was the young flight-lieutenant.

‘I can reply?’

He grinned. ‘I should say so. Apparently somebody knows somebody and is pulling strings.’

She raised a finger. ‘Just a minute – I’ll be quick.’

In the bureau she pulled a sheet of paper to her. It was then that she realized how difficult it was to write anything personal, knowing that she was going to give it to a stranger, who would read it and then others who would
also
read it. She thought quickly, and started writing.

She looked up, said to the flight-lieutenant, ‘Can I say I’m in Singapore?’

He nodded. ‘Don’t see a problem there. Anyway, if they don’t like it they will erase it fast enough – black it out.’

‘Thank you.’

Her pen scratched again.

She folded it and put it into an envelope after kissing it quickly.

She gave it to him. ‘There we are. When will he get it?’

The flight-lieutenant shrugged. ‘Can’t speak for the other end, Mrs Roxham, but that will be transmitted today as long as traffic is not too heavy. He certainly should get it in the next few days.’

When he’d gone she excused herself, saying to her aunt that she was going to get dressed. In her room, she sat on the bed and read the printed message again, then lay down holding on to it and cried.

Tom had come back from another boring patrol over the North Sea to find the place a hive of activity. He’d asked his ground crew what was going on as he stepped out on to the wing and saw fuel bowsers and armourers buzzing all over the field servicing the aircraft.

‘We’re on the move, sir – don’t know where.’

He grabbed a ride on a Hillman 10 heading for the hangars. The excitement in the squadron office was obvious, with saluting dispatch riders coming and going and clerks emptying filing cabinets.

The adjutant confirmed the news. ‘We’re off to Duxford, then across to France to support the BEF. By the way, the CO’s asking for you – go on in.’

Tom tapped on the latter’s door and stuck his head around.

‘Sir?’

Although on the phone, the CO beckoned him in and, leaning forward, used two fingers to push a communication sheet towards him. Tom picked it up and read Fay’s message. It was the most wonderful news.

The CO slammed the phone down and roared. ‘Right, Sergeant Roxham, now perhaps we can get on with the war.’

But he was smiling.

They took off in threes, then lined up in ‘V’ formation over the sea and headed south.

It was only as the coastline of North Norfolk came up that Tom
realized
they were going to come inland again right over Sheringham.

He flicked the button on his mask radio.

‘Blue 3 to Blue 1 – over.’

The CO acknowledged.

Tom asked him for permission to drop out of formation and fly low over the town.

Having received it, he eased the stick forward. At just over 200 feet he flashed in over the beach with its groins and newly laid barbed wire, then over the turrets and dome of the Grand Hotel.

It was gone in a flash and, as he climbed away from the pine trees on the ridge and slotted back into formation, he felt a deep sense of sadness. A lump came into his throat. Already it all seemed such a long time ago.

Churchill’s grim voice came out from the wireless.

‘The Battle of France is over, I expect the battle of Britain is about to begin.’

Lord and Lady Rossiter sat numbly in their beautiful drawing-room listening until Churchill finished –
‘last for a thousand years, men will say this was their finest hour.’

When Wilson switched off the wireless they sat in silence.

It had all happened so suddenly,
so violently.

On 13 May, Hitler had launched a sudden attack on Holland and Luxembourg. Rotterdam had been bombed with 800 dead and thousands homeless. By the 15th the Dutch had surrendered.

But the main blow came from the Ardennes, the so called impassable route. The German Panzers were soon across the River Meuse, by-
passing
the Maginot Line upon which the French defence had depended so much.

By 25 May, the outflanked and retreating BEF was converging on Dunkirk; by the early morning of 4 June, the last British and French personnel had been lifted from the beaches, and a new word had entered the language.

Blitzkrieg
.

Tom had been fighting continuously and moving his Hurricane hurriedly from one grass strip to another as the Panzers and Stuka dive bombers devastated all before them, overrunning airfield after airfield.

Over Ypres he’d had his first terror-stricken realization that he was being fired upon. He pulled his Hurricane around so hard that he momentarily blacked out, coming to as the blurred shape of a Messerschmitt passed before him. He fired his first ever burst in panic – and missed. Then his gun jammed, and thereafter he just ducked and
dived to stay alive.

As they flew back he felt elated – he had survived.

But the elation soon turned sour. As they got back to their grass field they were told to refuel quickly and fly south as they were about to be overrun.

On taking off, they were jumped by low flying ME 109s coming in with the sun behind them. He saw the CO go down in flames.

Maybe the capacity was there already, but from that moment on Tom Roxham became a ruthless predator of enemy aircraft.

His first kill came when they bounced some Stukas without fighter cover, diving on to roads clogged with civilian refugees as well as French Army trucks.

The first one he caught in his cross-wires as it climbed away leaving a tremendous column of black smoke rising from the ground. He swooped through it. The awkward slow Stuka was no match for the Hurricane. Tom released the safety catch, and watched as his tracer thumped into the wing root. It promptly folded up and plummeted to earth like a shot duck. There was a ball of fire and that was that.

He’d killed his first man – or rather two.

Somebody else got another one, but Tom managed to be in the right place at the right time as a third one tried to escape at ground level. He dropped down, following the black cross as it flew along a railway line. Tracers started coming up – he could see the terrified rear gunner’s face despite his mask. He killed him first, then let his shells creep up the long canopy. With the pilot dead, the black gull-like shape flew along for a while, wobbled then veered away into a forest. Trees were still burning long after he left the area.

Now the squadron was back in Scotland, badly mauled and at only sixty per cent strength.

He and George Hawksley were the only two sergeant pilots left. They sat in a pub with two pints of heavy, not talking – just too exhausted. Lord and Lady Rossiter went to bed early.

The news of Dunkirk, when it reached Singapore seemed incredible, but for all that there was no increased anxiety, no building of air raid shelters or anything like that. Although Britain was now alone against the Axis powers, that applied to the rest of the world. Her Empire still stood shoulder to shoulder with her.

There was no rationing, hotels and bars dispensed as much drink as
you wanted. Fay worried about Tom, but went swimming at the Targlin Club and on the beaches facing Jahore. Aunt Blanche’s improvement had reached a plateau. On the really exceptionally humid days she looked awful, and stayed under a fan with a bowl of water and a wet flannel on her forehead. Fay realized that the old lady ought to be at home, in England, for the last years of her life.

The Japanese were acting belligerently, certainly towards the Chinese, but
The Prince of Wales
and the
Repulse
could still be seen in the Navy dockyards.

A reassuring presence of Britain’s might.

The frustration of not being in the fight finally ended for the squadron when, at the beginning of August 1940, they were sent so
μ
th from 13 Group to replace one of the badly mauled squadrons of Air Vice-Marshal Park’s 11 Group which had been guarding the south-east of England and the approach to London.

The Battle of Britain was at its height.

Almost immediately, Tom found himself sent to intercept raiders approaching Margate, but before they could engage the formation, ME 109s appeared from cloud and dived on them.

In the mêlée that followed, he found himself on the tail of one and managed a perfect two-second deflection shot, watching as metal ripped off the side and black smoke poured from the engine. Remembering his CO and all the coaching on the shooting trips, he yelled in excitement, ‘That’s one for you, sir,’ and put in another three-second burst. The Messerschmitt exploded into whirling pieces. For a split second he thought he’d been hit by some of the wreckage as the Hurricane
shuddered
and the stick flicked violently in his hand.

Then as an incendiary bullet flashed over his arm and blew the
instrument
panel to pieces, he realized he was being attacked. He’d made the classic error of not breaking away as soon as he’d carried out his attack. The fuel tank beyond the panel caught fire, white smoke, thick and
burningly
hot, instantly filled the cockpit. Panic gripped him. He jerked the hood back, released his straps, flipped the plane over, and fell out into a maelstrom of cold blasting air. At 12,000 feet above the coastline he counted three and pulled the rip cord.

Fay sat bolt upright, eyes wide in the dark, chest heaving, her body bathed in sweat.

It took a while for her to realize where she was – inside the mosquito net around her bed. Her heart beat slowly began to return to normal. She’d had a nightmare.

Pulling aside the net, she swung around and set her feet down on the tiled floor, found her thermos of iced water and gulped down a glassful.

Fay tried to remember her dream, but strangely she couldn’t recall a thing – except an overwhelming sense of fear.

It took a long time for her to doze off and she never really went back to a deep sleep.

In the morning Fay had a headache that in the clammy rainy dawn would not go away. She also couldn’t shake off a sense of dread.

It was November 1940 before Tom returned to the squadron. He suffered a broken leg and arm going through the roof of a railway station; he’d then fallen further on to the platform in front of staff and passengers sheltering in the waiting-room.

Lying in agony, he realized just how lucky he was when an engine
hauling
ballast had made the ground quiver around him and enveloped him briefly in steam. Two feet to the left and he’d have been under the thing. The irony of his being killed by a train did not escape him.

Tom saluted the new CO who then shook his hand, ‘Glad to have you back, Tom and congratulations on the commission.’

It was now Pilot Officer Roxham, and he had seven kills to his name.

George Hawksley had also been promoted having been awarded the DFC.

Tom was disappointed. He’d hoped there would be a message waiting for him from Fay, but the silence continued. It made him miserable but at least she was safe. Some of the boys worried about their wives and
sweethearts
, especially those living in the big cities.

In the next few months, and then on through the summer and autumn of 1941 he took part in the increasingly deep fighter sweeps over enemy occupied territory, especially the Pas de Calais, called ‘Rhubarbs’. He added two ME 109s to his bag, catching them both with his cannon on their unarmoured bellies as they flew into his line of fire. Thick black smoke marked the end of both. A month after being back on the squadron he too as awarded the DFC and then a few weeks later was made a Flight-lieutenant; the citation listing his airmanship, combat skills and aggressive leadership.

He was now a Flight Commander opposite George.

Then, in mid November, one cold frosty morning he tightened his helmet strap, went through his pre-flight checks, felt the rudders and stick, and signalled for the engine start. Squadron Leader Tom Roxham led ‘A’ flight in a slanting climb over the white cliffs and out across the channel until they reached 22,000 feet, then moments later passed over the French coast.

He never stopped searching the skies, and it wasn’t long before he saw several black dots, like angry bees, swarming down on them.

He flicked his throat button, informing his wing commander that he could see ‘Bandits, eleven o’clock, coming down,’ then slipped the safety off the firing button.

It was time to get to work.

Fay’s war started in the early hours of Monday, 8 December 1941. Around four in the morning the bombs started to fall. She had stood with her aunt on the veranda, arms around each other as they had watched the flashes coming from the direction of Chinatown and the docks, followed by the thud of the bombs a second later.

Then came an even nearer orange glow, and it was only subsequently they were to discover there had been a direct hit on Robinson’s new
air-conditioned
restaurant in Raffles Place. Throughout the air raid the lights of the city had remained on.

But as they sat down to breakfast, fearful of what had happened and about the news that the Japanese had landed at Kota Bahru, a costal town near the Siamese border, the radio broke into its programme to announce something that halted Fay’s spoon as it was about to alight on her egg.

The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbour, no details, but many ships had been seen on fire. So, America was in the war. They both cheered up no end, and had a sherry at breakfast, a cheerfulness that was to evaporate slowly over the coming weeks. A black-out was imposed, though not adhered to. Because of the humidity people needed to be on their verandas, so a little light was allowed. More raids followed, and the town began to see boarded-up shop fronts and debris. Then came the stupefying news of the Japanese advance down through Malaya.

By the time Fay realized she should have made Aunt Blanche leave, despite the older woman’s protestations that no Jap was going to chase her out of her home, it was too late. The radio interrupted its music with
another announcement and she knew that there was no possibility of taking a boat to Australia.

They were in the cricket club, beneath a big ceiling fan turning lazily in the hot, stifling evening. What followed made her not only
immeasurably
sad at the loss of so many young lives, but it also shook her and all the British present as to the extent of the peril they were in.

The impersonal voice announced the loss of the
Prince of Wales
and the
Repulse
to enemy bombers.

There was absolute silence in the room, broken after as long as thirty seconds, by a glass hitting the tiled floor and smashing into a thousand pieces. Everybody drank up and went home quietly.

It was too late. Aunt Blanche had taken a turn for the worse. As Fay nursed her, changing her sheets and bathing her shrivelled old body, the Japanese had relentlessly advanced down the Malayan Peninsula until they were now at the gates of the city – or rather, on the other side of the Causeway which linked it to the mainland.

They had begun shelling the military installations, and a liner, the
Empress of Asia
had been sunk in the Straits. They could have been on it.

All was confusion. Desperate fighting was taking place as the Japanese ferried troops across the Straits near the Causeway. Nobody seemed to know what exactly was going on.

Continuous air raids, explosions and giant fires in the north and south festooned the doomed city with black oily smoke. Once immaculate lawns were now cratered and covered with blasted trees.

Fay had tried to do her bit with the Red Cross, but now she stood outside a hospital, almost dropping with fatigue, her face grimy and dirt streaked above a white uniform covered with soot and blood.

She smoked a cigarette as she stood by a huge trench nearly two hundred yards long that had been dug by a mechanical digger.

The corpses of Europeans were being put in one end, Asians the other, then sprinkled with lime.

The stench told its own story.

She knew they were doomed, no one who could see all this with their own eyes could think otherwise. There was a report of a smaller hospital that had been overrun, where the Japanese had bayoneted patients and staff alike – some still on the operating table.

She finished her cigarette and tossed it, still alight, away. If she was going to die, her only regret was that she had left Tom.

She should have followed her heart and rejected everything else; her
parents; their backgrounds; her career;
everything
.

Now it was all irrelevant – too late. Would they ever meet again in this life?

What would she and Tom be like in the next?